


Intimidation

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: DISPATCH BOX [32]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes Style, Canon Compliant, Divorce, Forbidden Love, Homosexuality, Illegal Activities, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Marriage, Moral Ambiguity, Moral Dilemmas, Victorian, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:07:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22641562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: “Hiding?” I echoed sharply. “Absolutely not. That would be tantamount to admitting our guilt.”He smiled and patted my knee. “There. There’s my army captain.”“Army?” I echoed.“Oh, yes, John. Do not think for even a moment that we are doing anything but going into battle.”Someone threatens Dr. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes with exposure.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: DISPATCH BOX [32]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/311988
Comments: 16
Kudos: 94





	Intimidation

The letter appeared in the usual fashion, with the rest of the post. I sorted through everything and placed Sherlock’s letters on his desk, then seated myself at my own desk and opened mine. I wasn’t expecting anything except the usual bills.  
  
I glanced at the door to Sherlock’s bedroom. I had left him in bed for the entire day and would not grow concerned until teatime. I did, of course, look in on him regularly, and he seemed to be sleeping soundly. It was not surprising, considering how hard he had pushed himself.  
  
I looked at the letter with interest. This was a good opportunity for me to apply some of the observational skills Sherlock is always attempting to teach me. The first thing I observed was that I did not recognise the handwriting. That was not at all unusual. Most of the personal correspondence addressed to me was from strangers; admirers of my stories.  
  
The handwriting was neat; feminine but firm. Clearly educated. The stationery seemed nondescript; neither coarse and cheap nor thick and expensive. The ink did not seem remarkable either. The postmark showing the post office, date, and time it had been posted did not immediately tell me anything beyond those dry facts, but I knew that I could refer to it if it proved necessary.  
  
I slit it open and withdrew several sheets of paper, covered in the same tidy handwriting. The correspondence was headed with the usual date, location, and salutation.  
  
By the end of the second sentence, I knew that there was nothing at all usual about it.  
  
[The original letter is folded up with this particular manuscript.]  
  
Dr. John Watson—  
  
I will not waste your time nor mine on the social conventions. I have recently returned from travelling in America—particularly New York—and you know very well who I saw there.  
  
We were once neighbours. You and your wife visited us several times for supper and some light musical entertainment. I recall her distinctly noting that you enjoyed those sorts of evenings, but little else in the way of normal pursuits.  
  
Nothing else in the way of normal pursuits, the way she told it, in fact. You were clearly not engaged as a general practitioner of medicine to any great extent. In fact, I heard that your waiting room was often empty for days at a stretch. I most certainly never referred anyone to your services, nor did anyone with whom I was acquainted.  
  
To be perfectly honest, I was never impressed in the slightest with anything about you. I found your lack of dedication to your practice deplorable. I was not impressed with your service in the army, either. I have only heard horrid, disgusting things about the soldiers who were supposed to be representing the best of our Queen’s subjects, and I can only, based on my observations of your character, presume that you were one of the worst.  
  
Your dear wife confided in me, more than once, about your lack of attendance in your own home—about your club. She told me of your indifference to the lovely home she established— Your cruel and callous remarks and actions which at times prevented her from bringing into that home the latest and most desirable of improvements— Your dismissal of her concerns regarding the tradesmen and servants.  
  
In short, you were, in all respects, an abominable husband. And this brings me directly to my original purpose.  
  
Your wife is not dead. She is living in New York under an assumed name. She is passing herself off as Mrs. Daniel Ryder. I do not know the man she claims to be her husband, and I do not believe that they are truly married.  
  
I saw Mrs. Watson as we—I was visiting my cousin Albert, and he was my escort for the evening—were leaving a concert hall. The lobby was crowded, and although she did not initially take any notice of me, I was instantly suspect that it was she. I was able to get close enough to her to hear her speak, and that confirmed her identity. She wears her hair differently, but I could not mistake her voice.  
  
I do not need to explain to you my shock and horror upon my discovery. I had been saddened to read of her passing—but of course you had abruptly moved away before that, without a word to anyone, which I found quite rude—and we had lost touch.  
  
Once I was certain that it was she, I did then reach out and touch her arm. She turned to me and instantly recognised me. I thought that she was going to faint. But then she rallied and smiled at me and greeted me by name.  
  
“Oh, Daniel,” she called out to a tall, dark-haired man close by. “This is an old acquaintance from _London_.” I do not exaggerate when I described the utter loss of colour to his cheeks at these words. He was clearly quite stricken. Still, we all managed proper introductions.  
  
The crowd in the lobby was slowly thinning out. Your wife sent the men to retrieve our coats, then drew me to a quiet corner. “Emily,” she whispered, her lips close to my ear, “would you and your cousin care to join us for supper?”  
  
And so we found ourselves in a restaurant nearby to the theatre—apparently accustomed to this sort of evening audience. My poor cousin Albert, who is a bit stupid, I must admit, had gone along with everything happily.  
  
We had coffee and some sandwiches. Finally, my cousin and Mr. Ryder withdrew to the smoking room of the hotel and she and I moved to a lounge. It was rather late by then, but the rooms were still quite lively. Nonetheless, we found a quiet corner in which to continue our conversation, and it was at this point that your wife finally revealed to me the truth of her situation.  
  
And what a dreadful truth it was.  
  
She explained how it all ended—how your horrendous behaviour had finally forced her to elicit the assistance of that queer man, Mr. Holmes, to drag you from that disgusting club—how you came home so begrudgingly—how you remained aloof and less than a husband—and how you finally forced her to accept a divorce and banishment.  
  
She explained that upon mutual agreement you had completely broken off contact and indeed did not know precisely where in America she was living, nor her assumed name. To her new acquaintances in New York, she described herself as a widow of an officer in Her Majesty’s army. If pressed for more details, she would feign grief, thus embarrassing the questioning individual into a withdrawal of their inquiry.  
  
She said it was quite queer to read about her own “death” in one of your bizarre stories, but she knew it was necessary to allow her to shed her prior identity. And I am certain that, although she did not allude to it, she will certainly never recover fully from her abrupt relocation to America, so far away from truly civilized society.  
  
As for her attitude towards you, she is remarkably brave. She did not shed one tear as she described to me your current situation. In fact, she managed to give the impression that she holds no ill will towards you. She claims that you were not in any way evil, but simply not “meant” to be content with a normal, decent life, profession, and marriage.  
  
I did have a vague notion of your activities, as my own dear husband occasionally indulges in reading some rather fantastic stories—although I do attempt to dissuade him, and to entice him with much more wholesome fare—and he sometimes shares with me some details from your pieces in The Strand. Since my return, I have taken it upon myself to seek out and read some of these lurid tales myself.  
  
I am now acutely aware of the diversions from the truth that your stories encompass. I know, as most of your readers know, that you change names and other details to protect the innocent people who have misguidedly put their trust in that man and in yourself. I am certain that, as they recognise themselves in your twisted tales, they are grateful that you have at least done them this kindness.  
  
And of course that leads me to wonder how much more of your writing is invention—sick fancy. Are there truly any people to worry about their reputations? Or are they all inventions of your sick mind? Your wife told me that Mr. Holmes is a mad man; that he has bouts of insanity. Who is to say that any of these so-called cases ever happened? How could they have? Is he so mad that he believes it all to be real? Is that it? Do you take his flights of fancy and sick inventions of murder and robbery and turn them to your own benefit? I understand that you make far more from your writing than you ever did from your failed practice. I do note that the law is not involved in many of these ‘cases’—is that because they do not actually exist? How Scotland Yard turns a blind eye to this—I am at a loss.  
  
What I do know as a certainty is that the law will be very much interested in certain _facts_ which I now possess, and although it makes me faint with disgust, I will lay them out to the authorities so that the proper actions may be taken against the both of you.  
  
According to Mrs. Watson—although she did not out of decency use these _precise_ words—you and Mr. Sherlock Holmes are living in a heinous, filthy perversion of a moral marriage. Just the thought of this makes me feel ill. You are going to hell—and before that, you are going to prison.  
  
Before I go to the police, however, I feel that I owe it to my friend (who claims to be happier in America than she ever was in England, but I cannot see how that can be true) to address you in person. I wish to see your face and to hear you attempt to persuade me from my duty to the Law and to the Church. I suspect that I shall find it both pathetic and laughable.  
  
Of course, the very thought of presenting myself to you in your den of sin horrifies me; it would be positively indecent. Therefore, you will meet me at Langham’s Palm Court at teatime on Thursday and we will discuss the actions that my duty dictate.  
  
Mrs. Harold Bloom.  
  
*  
  
Damn. Damnation. It could not be true. It had to be, though. I felt ill. My heart was pounding so hard I felt it would burst out of my chest. I rose from my desk and collapsed on the settee and groaned.  
  
“John?” Sherlock startled me by bursting out of his bedroom and rushing across the room. He threw himself to his knees and cradled my cheek in his hand. “Whatever has happened?” he demanded, looking terrified. “Are you ill? Shall I fetch Mrs. Hudson?”  
  
“No... no,” I managed to gasp out. “She cannot know...” I found it impossible to continue.  
  
“Know what? Please tell me,” he implored. He ran his eyes across my prone figure and were arrested by the letter I was still clutching. Without a word, he gently tugged it from my rigid fingers, rose, and began to read it.  
  
Devoured it, really. He is of course a very fast reader (not that I am slow) and made a remarkably quick but thorough study of the dreadful piece of correspondence. When he was done, he sank to his knees again and gently caressed my face. “Oh, John. You have had a terrible shock. What shall I get you? Do you want tea? Brandy?”  
  
There is something so endearing about my darling when he is trying so hard to be helpful. He can, at times, be quite brilliant at it—he has a way of soothing distraught clients with sensible and calming words that I find quite remarkable considering how he just as often cuts them to the quick with his thoughtless and biting comments. He has also, over the years, clearly observed and attempts to emulate my own ministrations of the stricken. Despite my absolute anguish, therefore, I had to smile the slightest bit at his tender and well-meaning words.  
  
“Just stay with me for a moment,” I requested.  
  
He nodded and wrapped his arms around me, gently kissing my face. At some point I came to my senses and gently dissuaded him—realising that the door to the corridor was shut but not locked—but for several minutes I was unconscious of anything but the comfort of his proximity and of his touch.  
  
Finally, though, I took a great breath and patted the back of his hand. “My love,” I whispered, struggling to sit upright, “could you—now—I’d like some brandy, my darling.”  
  
“Oh!” he cried, springing to his feet. “At once!”  
  
He was across the room and back with the decanter and glasses in a single breath. He sat at my feet and carefully poured each of us a glass. “All right?” he asked as he guided mine into my shaking hand.  
  
“Thank you,” I managed. The brandy was a favourite of mine, but even so it burned my throat, so tight it was.  
  
When I was finally able to get a few sips in, Sherlock nodded vigorously. “That is well,” he commented, taking a sip from his own glass. “You have often commented on the calming effects of brandy, and you must be calm, for now we must discuss our plans for tomorrow.”  
  
“Tomorrow?” I repeated stupidly.  
  
“Teatime. At Langham Hotel.”  
  
“Surely you do not intend for me to actually go meet this creature?”  
  
“Of course not,” he protested.  
  
“Oh, thank goodness—” I attempted.  
  
“It shall be both of us,” he finished, nodding his head in affirmation.  
  
“ _Both_ of us? Are you mad?”  
  
“Possibly...” He mulled over this for a moment. “But you cannot possibly believe that I would allow you to go on your own.”  
  
“I cannot believe you think it wise for _anyone_ to go,” I groaned.  
  
“Of course, we must go. It we do not, it will appear that she has been correct in her accusations and has frightened you into hiding.”  
  
In retrospect I realise that his choice of words was purposely antagonistic; that my anger would be much more conducive to navigating the untenable situation than fear or panic. But at that moment, I reacted instinctively, bristling at his words.  
  
“Hiding?” I echoed sharply. “Absolutely not. That would be tantamount to admitting our guilt.”  
  
He smiled and patted my knee. “There. There’s my army captain.”  
  
“Army?” I echoed.  
  
“Oh, yes, John. Do not think for even a moment that we are doing anything but going into battle.”  
  
*  
  
The remainder of the afternoon and evening, my love did his best to get me to forget my woes. His woes, as well, of course, for if this creature exposed me, she would expose him as well.  
  
Oddly, I did not nor do I now blame Mary. I had put her in an untenable situation, and she had risen from the wreck of our marriage with calm and bravery. Would I have been able to relocate to another country, as she had? Even with my experience as ‘three continents Watson’, I have to admit to myself, as I did then, that no, I would not have been able to move from my beloved England, which I had missed so greatly during my service.  
  
I did not even blame her for her honest address to our previous neighbour. Mary did not have any female relatives, and although she had attended a reputable boarding school in Edinburgh and at the time of our meeting was working as governess for a quite nice family, she did not have any friends in whom she could confide. She had come into our marriage with a young lady’s fanciful dreams, formed whilst she was still at school. So when she began to encounter my behaviour, which was without a doubt nearing madness at times, she had absolutely no resource upon which to call beyond the ladies’ magazines—and I am fairly certain that none of them carried articles about what to do when your husband ran off with his former flatmate to investigate mysteries, not to mention my other less-than-ideal behaviours. I reflect on this with a shudder—she might have had a perfectly lovely marriage, home, and family if I had been a proper husband. Instead, faced with such queer circumstances, she, quite rightly, turned to her new acquaintances for advice. I do not know if other young wives are as blunt and honest as Mary was, but I suspect that ladies are quite a bit more forthright with one another than as they are portrayed in books and plays—or as they behave when in the company of men.  
  
I could confer with Mrs. Hudson. She is undoubtably blunter with me than even with her sister. With the situations in which we have found ourselves over the years, this have proven to be a mixed blessing.  
  
I realise that I am rambling. In writing about this situation, I find that I am musing a great deal about it. At the time, I was not nearly as mindful of any of these thoughts, my mind being overwhelmed—nearly torn apart—with my fears about our impending interview.  
  
But now, in the calm after the storm, I can state with honesty that I understand Mary’s actions when accosted by that odious woman in the theatre lobby. As soon as she realised that she could not deny her identity, what bravery she demonstrated by being so forthright! I am also certain that her honesty with Mrs. Bloom would not ever have been offered had she the slightest hint of what the woman would do with the information.  
  
At that moment, though, I was much more concerned with what Sherlock intended to do or what effect he intended to elicit, for the most horrific element of the situation was that there was not a word of her letter from our accuser that was untrue.  
  
Exaggerated, perhaps, and certainly biased, but true.  
  
We were doomed.  
  
*  
  
As we headed to the Langham Hotel, I realised two things: that I did not know what Mary’s new Christian name was, and that it had been the Langham Hotel where Mary’s father, Captain Morstan, had checked in before going missing.  
  
I had been managing to remain as calm as I possibly could until then. Had the frightful creature recalled this? Is this why she had chosen this particular location for our meeting?  
  
Sherlock, of course, noted the sudden change to my demeanour and looked over at me sharply. “Something has occurred to you. What?” he demanded.  
  
I told him about the hotel.  
  
“I am not a student of human nature as you are,” he replied carefully, “but I suspect that she did indeed choose it purposely.”  
  
“It was also where the... illustrious member of European royalty stayed,” I reminded him.  
  
“Oh, yes,” he replied stiffly.  
  
I was instantly sorry for mentioning that case. I hate to admit it now, but I believe I did so simply because I was feeling so dreadful and knew that a reference to The Woman would make him feel miserable as well.  
  
[A note from Sherlock is written along the margin: It is understandable. Do not trouble yourself.]  
  
Indeed, as I write this, I realise how very good he was to me about the entire debacle. He was attentive and concerned and calmed me several times when my fears threatened to overtake my mind. Even though my relationship with him was the impetus for the matter, I did not blame him, and I still do not regret one minute of our association. In fact, the way he has been acting since this incident makes all the turmoil worthwhile.  
  
His behaviour and actions on this battlefield stand out as being particularly noteworthy.  
  
*  
  
It was quite simple to identify our adversary as we entered the dining room. I had only a vague recollection of her visage—I truly did not attend to our neighbours at that time—but I did recall her having a fondness for a somewhat flamboyant costume (actually, that was something Mary and I had a bit of a laugh about more than once—if there was a choice between attractive and alarming, she would inevitably select the most alarming possible. We strongly suspected that her wedding gown had been a rich, vibrant green). It was simple enough to see her in the crowd, and I indicated to the mâitre d’ that we were to join them—for she had brought her husband.  
  
I was quite relieved to discover his presence. My recollection of him was that he was quiet, in a restrained rather than timid manner, and was often a calming influence on his somewhat excitable wife. The last thing we needed was a scene.  
  
In fact, although initially I had been filled with unease upon her selection of an hotel, at the moment of our arrival, I realised that she would hardly be inclined to create a scene in such a public and dignified locale. For the first time since I had read her letter, I felt the smallest bit of optimism about the outcome of a tête-à-tête.  
  
*  
  
The rules of society and etiquette exist to put us at ease. By diligent study of the wide selection of books and articles and even of novels and plays, one can learn exactly how one should act in nearly any given situation. I myself have depended quite heavily on these rules to guide me whilst in illustrious company; our dinners and holidays at Mycroft’s house immediately come to mind. It is quite reassuring to have what one could consider a script for so many interactions in society.  
  
Therefore, the beginning of our interview was, on the surface, quite normal and respectable. Who rises from the table—who introduces whom—who pours the tea—what topics of conversation are acceptable—is all spelled out, and I found myself rather numbly following these social “orders” quite the way I once did military ones. Thus, the conversation was as perfectly banal and correct as one could ever imagine—the weather, the latest flurry in Parliament, the health of the Queen, the accuracy of the railway schedules—filled the time. Sherlock was being especially charming—obviously by design, but charming nonetheless. He made a particular point of addressing himself directly to Mr. Bloom—laughing at his amusing comments; agreeing with his observations.  
  
If I did not know him better, I would have been jealous. As it was, I was aware that his every word—his every tip of the head or placement of graceful fingers on Mr. Bloom’s arm—was an act delivered with the express purpose of steering our encounter in the desired direction. Somehow, even in the midst of my anguish, I was aware of his mastery and command of the situation and had the greatest hope that he would somehow reconcile the entire debacle.  
  
So now we each had tea and cake. Sherlock was enjoying his, but I could not bring a morsel to my lips, let alone swallow anything. The time had come.  
  
“How shall I begin?” I managed, and it was not a rhetorical question. I wanted the dreadful encounter—the entire issue—over and done with.  
  
“I suppose both you and Mr. Holmes have read my letter?” Mrs. Bloom demanded, obviously eager to get on with it as well.  
  
“We have,” I affirmed.  
  
“Then let us get straight to the root of the matter,” she sniffed.  
  
I braced myself. What would her demands be? Money? Public confession of my sins? Turn myself in? This was the moment I had been dreading all this time. Is this how Sherlock felt when faced with the inevitability of his death on that precipice at the Reichenbach Falls?  
  
“I am a moral woman,” she began—  
  
And then, to my great surprise, Sherlock interrupted. “By whose definition?” he asked coolly.  
  
Her mouth fell open. “By... what?”  
  
“How precisely do you determine that you are a moral woman? Have you cultivated a specific collection of manners? Have you made a study of honourable and criminal behaviours? Are you more concerned with that which is ethical or that which is virtuous? Are your beliefs applied equally to all people, or do you expect a different standard from certain levels of society?”  
  
Our adversary was struck dumb, as was her husband and, I admit, I, so he continued unimpeded.  
  
“I myself make a distinction between ‘ethical’ and ‘virtuous’ behaviours. I believe that ‘ethical’ ways of thinking are concerned with doing no harm—as our good doctor here can attest by his profession of the Hippocratic Oath. By simply avoiding certain injurious behaviours, one can be considered ethical, and therefore moral. Virtuous acts, on the other hand, require a more... _vigorous_ action. Virtuous acts are those acts which are performed on others. One must make a decision to embark on that particular road; it is not for the passive.  
  
“When I was first beginning my investigative practice, I rather naively believed that it was easier to be ethical than to be virtuous—surely simply _avoiding_ a behaviour that is considered to be immoral is easier than setting oneself into motion to perform acts of morality, is it not? If I simply avoid eating meat, I am a vegetarian, whereas if I wish to be a carnivore, I must intentionally seek out and devour animal flesh.  
  
“However, as I have discerned during my years of investigating crimes, _avoiding_ immoral behaviour is apparently as difficult as performing acts of goodness. It is simple enough to _say_ , ‘Do not kill your neighbour,’ but actually _not_ killing him sometimes takes a great deal of self-control. We have impulses, you see—we all do—we all have _urges_ , and it is _resisting_ these urges that proves to be far more difficult. A man who becomes violent when drinking should, it seems, simply not take drink and all will be well, but for some men _not_ taking a drink is so difficult as to be impossible.  
  
“I myself admit to being a prisoner to my own particular urge—as the good doctor here has written about more than once. My personal shackle is cocaine, and although I do at times attempt to resist the urge to take it, the urge is much stronger than my desire to avoid it.  
  
“So, back to my original query: do you consider yourself a moral woman because you perform virtuous acts, or do you consider yourself so for avoiding acts that are considered repulsive, or harmful, or even cruel?”  
  
My own mouth had fallen open in astonishment at this point, and I observed a faint film of perspiration on the brow of Mr. Bloom, but my darling remained the example of a perfect English gentleman—he took a sip of his tea.  
  
It was Mrs. Bloom who recovered soonest. “Well,” she managed in a querulous tone, “are you done?”  
  
“For now,” Sherlock replied—a bit smugly.  
  
“What was the point of that diatribe?” This was the first contribution from Mr. Bloom since our desultory discussion of the latest extension of the Underground.  
  
“I merely wished to ascertain what, precisely, your wife meant by the word ‘moral’ as applied to herself.”  
  
I must admit that, despite her less-admirable characteristics, I cannot fault Mrs. Bloom’s tenacity. Her eyes flashing with anger, she drew herself up and addressed my love quite directly. “Mr. Holmes, I find what you imply disgusting. Clearly I am a moral woman because I both avoid injurious acts _and_ perform acts of charity.” And with that statement, she placed herself utterly into Sherlock’s hands.  
  
He sat back in his chair and observed her coolly. I leaned forward in mine, eager for the strike.  
  
I was not disappointed.  
  
“I am delighted to hear that,” he began. He was speaking slowly; almost languidly. “I am a great admirer of those who perform acts of charity. What in particular do you do?”  
  
She blinked in surprise, and for a moment I was afraid that she would end the interview or at least protest his question, but I should have had faith that he was in complete control, and I admit to feeling a thrill as she rose to his bait.  
  
“Do? What do I do...?” She glanced at her husband, who was watching intently, his hands clenched in his lap.  
  
“Yes. Please.”  
  
“Well... I...”  
  
“Mary... Mrs. Watson used to attend to the inmates of the women’s prison,” I offered, sensing the direction in which my love was headed.  
  
“Did she not often assist the ‘downtrodden’ and deliver nourishing food to the poor?” he asked, directing his query at me.  
  
“She did,” I affirmed, promptly and honestly. “She also participated in the distribution of cast-off clothing.” We both turned to our adversary.  
  
“Well... I did...” she faltered, looking imploringly at her husband.  
  
“You joined her at the prison once,” he offered, stammering.  
  
“How commendable,” my love offered, his insincerity laughable if the situation had not been so dire.  
  
“I...”  
  
“You perhaps were more vigorous in the application of avoidance of indecent behaviours than in performing pious ones.” My sweetheart’s voice was like warmed honey.  
  
“Yes. That’s it.” She withdrew a delicate handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed discreetly at her lips.  
  
“So, you make it a point to eschew low or... lewd acts?”  
  
I found myself nearly blushing at his blunt words. “I am certain that Mrs. Bloom does not have occasion to avoid such things; she surely is not exposed to them,” I suggested.  
  
He nodded. “Ah, yes. Thank you, Doctor Watson. I apologise, Mrs. Bloom. Of course, you have no need of avoiding those behaviours to which you are not privy. But I am sure that even the most pious woman is occasionally tempted... perhaps a bit of envy towards a neighbour with a nicer garden? An acquaintance with a new hat?”  
  
“Most certainly not!” the woman snapped. I found it difficult to maintain my stoic countenance—for how could any acquaintance obtain a chapeau so flamboyant as to elicit envy in _her_?  
  
“How _admirable_ ,” my angel murmured. “And I am certain you would not steal, nor use... unladylike language.”  
  
“Of course, she would not!” Mr. Bloom blurted out.  
  
“Fascinating,” he nearly whispered. And there it was—the sting that so often accompanies honey.  
  
“Fascinating?” Mr. Bloom echoed. I watched as he clutched convulsively at the napkin in his lap.  
  
Sherlock nodded indulgently, a slight smile on his lips. “Yes. I am not a student of human behaviour as is my dear friend here, but I do find myself intrigued by this conundrum.”  
  
“Conundrum?” Mr. Bloom repeated. I waited for the detective to make a cutting remark—he despises this habit. I was surprised that instead, he leaned forward with that piercing look in his eyes that has, more than once, brought the most hardened criminal to his knees, babbling confessions and begging for mercy.  
  
“Yes,” he said carefully, his keen eyes raking across the space between the unhappy couple. “For whilst I am heartened to hear that Mrs. Bloom strives so mightily to avoid immoral behaviours, I am struck by the fact that she is lying.”  
  
I am not certain who looked more shocked—Mrs. Bloom, Mr. Bloom, or myself. I had sensed the direction in which he was headed, based upon his line of questioning, but I had not anticipated such a blunt observation.  
  
Not an observation—an accusation.  
  
Perhaps predictably, Mrs. Bloom recovered herself first, and she was livid. “How dare you?” she hissed. “How _dare_ you accuse me of lying?”  
  
He blinked in mock surprise. “How could I not,” he wondered, “when it is so apparent?”  
  
“Whatever do you mean?” Mr. Bloom demanded, showing the most passion he had all evening.  
  
“Are you not Christians?”  
  
“Are we... of course we are!” Mrs. Bloom’s voice raised above the restrained modulation she had, until now, managed to maintain.  
  
“So, you are familiar with the tenets of your faith.”  
  
“Of course I am!”  
  
This ejaculation drew a few curious looks from others in the dining room.  
  
Sherlock smiled—and even I found it a bit sinister. “Although I am not what anyone would consider a ‘practitioner’ of any particular faith,” he admitted, “I am well-versed in the major beliefs. It is often useful information to have at one’s fingertips whilst investigating a crime.”  
  
This was an absolute fact. He had once tripped up a thief by noting that his alibi included him partaking of a particular meal in a particular restaurant that, if he was of the faith he claimed, an impossibility, both due to the restrictions regarding food practiced by those of that faith and those of the establishment in which he claimed to have dined.  
  
[Sherlock has interjected a comment: _I suspect that even the thickest of the inspectors at the Yard would have eventually discerned the double falsehood of the alibi of an ostensibly Hebrew man who claimed to have been enjoying_ bratwurst _at a vegetarian restaurant at the time of the robbery._ ]  
  
“So,” he continued, “I find that keeping the ‘Ten Commandments’ as laid out in the Christian Bible... and Torah... at the foremost of my thoughts a helpful tool during investigations. I believe the particular statement most relevant to the situation in front of us is from Exodus, Chapter 20, verse... sixteen. ‘Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour.’” I admit, simultaneously with being impressed with his facility with the text—and its relevance to the situation—I was somewhat annoyed at how smug he sounded. I almost immediately discovered, however, that his attitude was both appropriate and well-earned.  
  
Mrs. Bloom apparently experienced the same epiphany as I had, but of course for her it was not a moment of victory. “’False...’” she managed, the word sticking in her throat like a fishbone.  
  
“False?” Mr. Bloom reliably repeated.  
  
“Yes. _False_. I refer, as you might have discerned, to the letter you addressed to my friend here.”  
  
I felt my heart skip a beat. He was treading on thin ice.  
  
“Not one word of that is false!” she exclaimed victoriously—and prematurely.  
  
“Not one word,” Mr. Bloom echoed.  
  
My stomach turned. We were doomed. Or at least so I thought at that moment. I should have had the sense to realise that my dear friend would not—could not—endanger himself or me, and that he had the entire situation well in hand. Fortunately, it was a mere moment before my fears were relieved.  
  
“So, what is your proof?”  
  
And with those five words, I knew that all would be well.  
  
*  
  
*  
  
“So, your accusation is that Watson and I are deviants. What illicit behaviour, precisely, do you intend to report to the police?” he drawled, leaning back in his chair and removing a cigarette from his case.  
  
“Why... I... that you and the doctor... live together...” she managed, stammering terribly.  
  
“Really? How indiscreet... of our landlady, and the thousands like her, who take in lodgers to support themselves.”  
  
Oh, he was brilliant. He lit his cigarette.  
  
“You...”  
  
“Doctor Watson and I share diggings. We have done so for some years now. In fact, that is how we met—we were both seeking someone with whom to share lodgings. Hardly an unusual arrangement, particularly considering the costs of rent in London.”  
  
“That was a bit of luck, me running into Stamford that day,” I interjected. It certainly couldn’t hurt to remind them that there was someone who could verify the accuracy of my love’s statement.  
  
“You had a complete disregard for the wholesome home Mrs. Watson established for you.” She directed this at me, of course.  
  
“I cannot deny that, but surely I am not the only husband who cannot tell a radish from a rose.” I earned a sly smile from Sherlock at this nicety.  
  
“You held an unhealthy obsession with attending your club.”  
  
“Once again, I cannot deny that. It had come so that I knew that I was making my wife unhappy with my inattentiveness to our home life, and I admit that I withdrew to my club to avoid unhappy scenes in the evenings. This was by no means honourable behaviour, I will admit, but it was not a crime.” I managed to keep the note of triumph from my voice.  
  
“You... did not pursue your medical practice with any sense of urgency.”  
  
“Once again, surely the doctor here is not the only medical man who has discovered a better application of his skills and knowledge than attending to sick headaches and ‘bad chests’.” Sherlock fiddled with his cigarette, examining its smoking end intently.  
  
“You have certainly been needed to apply your skills in rather urgent circumstances on some of your cases,” Mr. Bloom blurted out. I was surprised that he did not burst into flames from the look his wife gave him.  
  
“You falsely reported the death of your wife!” Mrs. Bloom’s face was turning an unbecoming, blotchy red.  
  
“I did no such thing,” I replied calmly. “As you have pointed out, my stories are fantastic creations with a great many fictions and diversions. And,” I continued, feeling quite emboldened about this particular point, “I was not the one responsible for that particular fabrication. My editor was aware of my divorce and wished to avoid scandal. A widowed author sells much better than a divorced one.” I swear Mr. Bloom disguised a smile by raising his hand to his lips and giving a discreet cough.  
  
“There is no death certificate on file,” Sherlock added. “As a doctor, such a thing would have been a trifle to conjure up. That Doctor Watson did not do so shows that he did not set out to claim that Mrs. Watson had died.”  
  
“What else do you have?” I asked in a rather cavalier fashion. “You can hardly turn us in based on my admittedly boorish behaviour towards my wife.”  
  
“I...” Mrs. Bloom paused, gathering her thoughts. It was time to unsheathe her last weapon. She took a deep breath, glanced around us (the dining room had thinned out considerably), and nodded firmly. She had decided to play her ace. “Mrs. Watson shared with me your lack of attention to the marriage bed, and your inability to satisfy your ultimate responsibilities as a husband.”  
  
“Emily!”  
  
Both Sherlock and I, our eyes wide, looked in astonishment at Mr. Bloom.  
  
“Emily,” he repeated, more quietly, “that proves nothing, as well you know.” This time I thought that, like Medusa, Mrs. Bloom’s glare would turn her husband into stone.  
  
Sherlock leaned forward, observing his face closely. “What _do_ you know about it?” he inquired gently, as if afraid to spook the man.  
  
Blushing furiously, he addressed me directly. “Your war wounds... surely impede you still.”  
  
I was filled with gratitude. “Yes,” I agreed eagerly. “I sacrificed a great deal for Her Majesty.”  
  
Sherlock coughed, waving cigarette smoke from his face.  
  
[ _Her Majesty would be thrilled to know that your injuries, whilst severe, do not impede you in the slightest_ is his written commentary here.]  
  
“Harold, that is hardly helpful,” Mrs. Bloom hissed.  
  
“Actually, Mr. Bloom has just been extremely helpful... to us,” my darling offered, and there was no mistaking the note of victory in his voice.  
  
“Has he been?” I prompted. I sensed that he had finally backed Mrs. Bloom into the corner he had planned for her. Our interview was nearly over.  
  
“Yes. Most assuredly. Shall I explain?” he smirked.  
  
“Please,” I replied. I sat back comfortably to afford myself a good view of the players.  
  
“Mrs. Bloom, you have accused my dear friend Watson of some heinous behaviour, and, what is worse, you accuse _both_ of us of practicing perversions that will most certainly bring us to trial and probably put us in prison.”  
  
Mrs. Bloom opened her mouth to speak, but Sherlock was too quick for her.  
  
“Most certainly, that is, _if_ what you claim was true and _if_ you could testify to the details of those sordid acts.”  
  
She closed her mouth.  
  
“Which, of course, you cannot. Your accusations are falsehoods, fabricated by you. And to what end? Some mistaken belief that what you are doing is a moral imperative? That by taking someone else down, you somehow lift yourself up? But how can this be? For by creating these stories, you have actually broken one of the commandments that you avow to uphold.” He sounded genuinely perplexed.  
  
“What is even more confounding,” he continued, “is that in doing so, you have actually put yourself at risk of prosecution.”  
  
“Prosecution?” Mr. Bloom interjected.  
  
“Oh, of course!” I had just realised to what the detective was referring. “You, Mrs. Bloom, did not just voice your accusations in this conversation. You wrote them in your letter. That is libel.”  
  
“Libel,” Mr. Bloom murmured. “I _told_ you not to write all that.”  
  
“Excellent advice,” Sherlock agreed. “You would have done yourself a service to simply invite the doctor here to meet. Instead, due to your... _expansive_ explanations, you not only made it clear that I must accompany my friend today, but you gave me quite a treasure-trove of information about yourself.  
  
“I am grateful that because of this, I did join my friend today, for meeting you and your husband has allowed me to make a deduction about your _arrangement_.”  
  
“Arrangement...” Mr. Bloom’s predictable echo petered out, his mouth hanging open.  
  
“What... whatever do you mean?” the shrewish woman stammered, blinking rapidly.  
  
Sherlock shook his head. “Dear me. Surely you do not wish for me to delve into the details in front of the good doctor.”  
  
Neither answered, looking at each other as if seeking a way to respond.  
  
“Watson,” he said as he rose from his chair, “I believe we are done here.”  
  
I rose swiftly. “Yes, Holmes. I believe we are.”  
  
We took our leave of the Blooms without another word from us or from them.  
  
*  
  
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” my darling called out. He was standing by the fireplace, fiddling with his pipe as she arrived with a covered tray.  
  
“Yes, thank you,” I repeated, watching as she deftly laid the table. I had not had much of an appetite the whole day, and now I found myself ravenous. The cold duck looked delicious. “I shall clear the table and bring the tray down myself later,” I added.  
  
“Oh, that would be wonderful, Doctor Watson,” she replied, closing the door behind herself.  
  
“Leave that pipe,” I instructed, locking the door to the corridor. “Come sit down.”  
  
*  
  
We both had a good appetite, as it turned out, and finished our cold supper with alacrity. As we ate, we reflected on our outing.  
  
Well, not precisely. We talked around it, rather.  
  
Yes, the tea had been an interesting blend.  
  
No, the cake was a bit dry.  
  
Had I noticed the lady who was slipping silver teaspoons into her reticule? (I had not.)  
  
What did he think of the colourful striped tie worn by the gentleman at the table next to ours? (Gawdy.)  
  
And so, we finished our meal. As I had promised, I stacked the plates and whatnot back on the tray and placed it, covered, on the sideboard. Whilst I was doing so, Sherlock wandered into his bedroom and changed his coat for a dressing gown, then retrieved my smoking jacket. I accepted it and made myself comfortable before falling into my chair.  
  
“Now,” I said firmly, “if you would pour a sherry for each of us, I believe we have something more important to discuss than the restaurant’s china pattern.”  
  
He nodded in agreement and went to fetch two glasses.  
  
*  
  
He was restless. After absent-mindedly handing me both glasses (I put the second on the small table beside my chair), he retrieved a cigarette and lit it, gazing into the cloud of smoke, deep in thought.  
  
I gave him a moment, sipping my sherry and watching the firelight dance across his fine features. Then I broke into his reverie. “Sherlock,” I said quietly, “may I interrupt?”  
  
“Hm? Oh, yes. I suppose you have questions.” He gazed at me through the smoke.  
  
“Most assuredly. Firstly, how much of that speech about morality did you rehearse?”  
  
He smiled, finally focusing his full attention on me. “Oh, most of it was a little something I scribbled down a few years ago. Encountering criminals as often as we do sometimes sends me off in the most fantastic directions.”  
  
“The Bible verses?”  
  
“Those I did revise,” he admitted. “I spent a good amount of time last night refreshing myself on the professed morals of those of the Christian faith.”  
  
So, that was how he was so easily able to quote chapter and verse so aptly applicable to the situation. I should have realised that he would have prepared himself. This also explained the thicker-than-usual smoke in our drawing room that morning. Then something occurred to me. “You do know that quoting from the Bible could have led to either of the Blooms quoting right back at us. I doubt the outcome of our conversation would have been quite so... gratifying if they had brought up—”  
  
“’Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination.’ Leviticus, Chapter 18, verse 22,” he interjected. “It was a calculated risk. Mrs. Bloom’s rather sweeping accusations, particularly in her letter, led me to believe that she was outraged more by generalities than specifics, and that she relied more on hearsay and gossip than a strict reading and understanding of that particular good book.”  
  
“Sherlock, does it ever bother you—”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Sherlock! At least allow me to ask my question.”  
  
“You are wondering if it ever bothers me that our behaviour is, in fact, strictly forbidden in the Bible.”  
  
“Well... does it?” I stammered.  
  
“I should like to point out that, firstly, the statement in Leviticus is not part of the ‘ten commandments’ that are supposed to represent the most moral of acts—or the least moral, I suppose. Secondly, Leviticus is in the ‘Old Testament,’ and in theory, people who term themselves ‘Christian’ adhere more closely to the strictures set out in the ‘New Testament’. Our... particular behaviours _are_ mentioned in that portion of the good book—and condemned, I am afraid—but not in the supposed words of the son of God himself.” He ended his statement rather drily; I do know that, as he has stated, he is a scholar but not a follower of any statements of any faith.  
  
I myself am not certain.  
  
[ _And that is perfectly fine_ Sherlock has interjected along the margin]  
  
I finished my own sherry and reached for the glass that had been intended for my darling. He fidgeted with his cigarettes; with the assorted bric-a-brac that cluttered the mantlepiece.  
  
“John,” he finally started, “does it bother you...”  
  
“Does it bother me that we are breaking the law?” I suggested. I was delighted to see the slight look of surprise on his face. For once I had followed _his_ train of thought and apparently had hit the mark.  
  
He nodded.  
  
“As I have said before, there was a time in my life when I thought it was my role in life to uphold the law—without question,” I offered.  
  
“But not now?”  
  
“Sherlock, we have spoken about this many times,” I reminded him. He looked at me longingly and I sighed. “You know that my attitude towards following the letter of the law has changed.”  
  
He nodded again.  
  
We both considered this for a bit, I gazing into the glass of sherry in my hand and he into the fire. I found my head beginning to spin—not with the spirits I was imbibing, but with the words we were bandying about like a shuttlecock.  
  
Laws. Morals. Commandments. Accusations. Lies.  
  
Truth.  
  
I began to feel slightly ill. “Come sit here with me,” I requested, dropping the second empty glass on the table and holding my arms open. He had apparently been waiting for this invitation, for he was in my lap almost before the words were out of my mouth. As always, I arranged his long limbs until we were both comfortable. I rubbed his thin back through his dressing gown and thought about the situation. Finally, the thoughts swirling through my head coalesced. The conversation had not gone in the direction I anticipated, and it was time I got us headed in a more useful direction.  
  
“Are you certain that woman would be unable to prove any... less-than-lawful activities on our part?” I pondered aloud.  
  
“You know that she cannot. Run through it yourself. It will reassure you.”  
  
*  
  
Of course, Mrs. Bloom _could_ prove a great many things that she had written in her letter to me. We had already discussed certain elements of the situation during our conversation with the Blooms, but now I considered the situation methodically, murmuring my ruminations as I continued to rub my darling’s thin back.  
  
She could prove that we had been, at one time, neighbours.  
  
Anyone could discover with relatively little effort who had been letting those houses at that time; estate agents were generally quite generous with information of that sort. Discovering that the Watsons and the Blooms had been neighbours would not prove anything beyond the manner of our acquaintance.  
  
That Mary and I had been unhappily married could be confirmed by our maid-of-all-work, and more than likely our neighbours and the shopkeepers in the area.  
  
There were certainly witnesses to my uncouth behaviour in my club. Whilst the members of my former club might somewhat soften their descriptions of my behaviour during those months, there was no reason for them to deny it. I was boorish and sulky—nothing for me to be proud of, but hardly nefarious actions.  
  
That Sherlock and I did share diggings, as we had before my marriage, was also an undeniable—and nonincriminating—fact.  
  
That our marriage had ended by divorce rather than death was undeniable. Mary and I had been legally divorced (and if the means by which that divorce had been obtained—necessitating a stage-managed ‘assignation’ on my part as proof of adultery—we were assuredly not the first nor the last people to have play-acted in such a manner to achieve their goal).  
  
Finally, that Mary was alive; that she had seen and talked to her in America—that would be easy enough to prove even without contacting Mary herself. She had moved away of her own volition, and even if under an assumed name, her travels to America would surely appear in some ship’s log.  
  
Additionally, I had not been the one to invent the fiction that Mary was dead; that was my editor. No death certificate had been falsified by myself or anyone else.  
  
So, although these facts (for the most part) were absolutely cause for me to feel embarrassment and shame, they did not reveal anything _criminal_.  
  
Most importantly, what Mrs. Harold Bloom could not prove was the final statement in her vicious piece of correspondence, and what was, of course, our paramount concern—that the great detective and I were deviants.  
  
There was certainly no _tangible_ proof.  
  
If asked, Mrs. Hudson could of course not deny that we were not exactly _exemplary_ tenants, but beyond a few rounds of revolver shots and the occasional homicidal maniac coming to tea, we could most certainly not be termed _deviants_. We kept separate bedrooms. I even, at times, lived elsewhere—ostensibly due to the detective’s maddening habits involving his chemical experiments—which proved nothing regarding our relationship or our natures beyond Holmes’ brilliant if rather eccentric one. That I often tended to him in an intimate manner—well, the man was notorious for getting himself shot at, stabbed, or nearly drowned in the course of his investigations, and his recurring illnesses necessitated my medical attentions as well. Every eccentricity of my love could, in fact, explain any possible scenarios of supposed inversion.  
  
If our dear landlady does _happen_ to know any different, she most certainly would not implicate us. Defending her slightly mad, violin-playing tenant to the neighbours is one thing. Admitting that she is knowingly harbouring two criminals is another.  
  
Of course, and most importantly, any letters between ourselves that would incriminate us in any way have been secreted with my other private papers or burned, and no eyes but our own had ever laid upon them.  
  
Mrs. Harold Bloom could not _prove_ a single thing.  
  
*  
  
“Excellent, John,” Sherlock murmured. I could tell he was becoming sleepy. Regardless, I basked in his praise. I was feeling calmer than I had since the moment I had opened that wretched letter.  
  
“I believe it is time that we retired, my love.”  
  
He untangled himself from me and we shuffled into his bedroom.  
  
*  
  
I had him in his nightclothes and tucked up. He watched me with hooded eyes as I prepared to retire myself. He smiled sweetly as I turned down the gas and slid into the bed beside him. I sank back into my pillow and shut my eyes.  
  
And then something occurred to me that had me sitting bolt upright.  
  
“John? Are you well?” He sat up as well and reached his hand out in the darkness, laying it on my chest. “What has alarmed you?”  
  
“I know she cannot _prove_ anything about us, but what if that turns out to be an insufficient deterrent? What if she goes to the authorities or makes a public declaration of her suspicions? The accusation alone would lead to an investigation, would it not? And then who is to know what evidence some dogged prosecutor would turn up? Are the Blooms still a threat to our freedom and safety?”  
  
“The Blooms? Mm... No. It is extremely unlikely that they will pursue the matter... in fact, I have no doubt that we will never hear from or about Mr. and Mrs. Bloom again.” His hand rested upon my chest still, and I found its steady presence comforting.  
  
“How can you be so certain?” I inquired tremulously.  
  
“Well... I made some inquiries when I went out this morning.”  
  
“Pertaining to what?”  
  
“I merely wished to acquaint myself of our adversary. As I have often remarked, I must have data.”  
  
“Where did you go?” I found that hearing him address the issue as he would a case had a calming effect on me; my heart rate began to slow. If there was anything on this earth on which I could rely, it was the detective’s great brain and gift for investigation.  
  
“I began in the area in which you and Mrs. Watson lived, primarily to some of the shops, and then I went to your old club.” He removed his hand from my chest, and I felt him push himself upright.  
  
“And what did you discover? Wait. I cannot continue conversing in the darkness; it is so oppressive.” Having done so many times, I was able to make my way across the room and re-light the gas. I kept it low, but felt much better when I could see him. I returned to the bed and sat at the edge of the mattress. “There. Now, what information did you seek, and what did you learn?”  
  
*  
  
He explained to me that he had wanted to know more about Mrs. Bloom, in order to ascertain whether she was truly a threat. Had she done anything like this before? Did she follow through when she asserted that she was going to do anything? How did she act towards the shopkeepers? Towards her neighbours?  
  
I was concerned for a moment. How had he gone about his inquiries?  
  
“I was quite discreet, John,” he assured me before I could even ask. “I actually inquired about you.”  
  
“What!?” My heart rate soared again.  
  
“Calm yourself. I presented myself as an old acquaintance of yours who had been out of the country for some time and was attempting to locate you.”  
  
“You were in disguise,” I realised.  
  
“Of course. Your descriptions of me in your published stories have been quite precise. If I had gone there in my usual apparel and spoke naturally, I would have been recognised. It would have appeared quite odd that I was inquiring about you.”  
  
“And so, you went as...?”  
  
“A rather nondescript barrister with a bad chest who had spent the past several years in Canada.”  
  
I smiled and shook my head. My darling does love play-acting.  
  
He went on to describe where his line of inquiry had led him—firstly a butcher. A barber. A chemist. As he continued to list his visits, it occurred to me.  
  
“Sherlock, those are all the shops I frequented. How in heaven’s name did you know where to go?”  
  
He smiled gently. “You told me,” he replied.  
  
“I told you? Why on earth would I tell you who my barber was, and when? I do not recall sharing such mundane details with you.”  
  
His smile faded. “Sometimes when you visited here, you were... less than reserved.”  
  
I groaned. “I am so sorry, my dear friend. I was overindulging a great deal at that time.”  
  
“It is understandable,” he remarked. “You wished to detach yourself from an untenable situation. No one bears you a grudge, including myself.”  
  
“No one? Who do you mean?” I hoped that he was not referring to my old butcher or tailor, for that would mean I had been not just unseemly but at risk of arrest for being drunk in public.  
  
“My last stop was at your previous club. I spoke to the servants and members who were having lunch, and those who recalled you had nothing unpleasant to say. They seemed to understand that you had been, at that time, experiencing difficulties.”  
  
“Highly public difficulties, apparently,” I said, my voice low. “I am ashamed. I had no idea that my indiscretions were so widely known.”  
  
“I have perhaps described my inquiries inaccurately. No one outside of your club referenced any disorderly behaviour.” He reached out and laid his hand on my shoulder.  
  
“Did they mention how far behind I was on paying my bills?” I was feeling ill. I reached up and pressed my hand over his.  
  
“Your debts are all paid in full, John. Please do not trouble yourself about it further,” he begged. “Remember that my intention was to discover information about your neighbours. I was asking if anyone knew your current location. I would mention at that point that you had, in a letter to me, mentioned neighbours. I wondered if those neighbours might know where you were. That generally led to a conversation about the Blooms themselves. From there, the information flowed freely. As we discovered, Mrs. Bloom’s nature tends to engender a great deal of conversation.”  
  
“You are brilliant,” I told him sombrely. I raised his hand to my lips and kissed it fervently. “And what did you learn about them?”  
  
“Well, a _few_ of the locals were a bit reticent, but in most of the shops I was told—and this will come as no surprise after today’s exchange—that Mrs. Bloom is considered a rather fussy customer.”  
  
He delivered this information in such a serious manner that it was droll. It broke my gloomy mood and I smiled. “Rather fussy, or impossible?” I asked.  
  
“Apparently Mr. Bloom spends a great deal of time going ‘round to the shops, apologising.”  
  
I laughed, and he joined me. And then I calmed myself. “Now, while that certainly creates an amusing picture, I am afraid I have diverted you from my original question—what did you learn that made you so certain that the Blooms will not make good on their threats?”  
  
“Fear of retaliation,” he stated plainly.  
  
“What?” He had taken me entirely by surprise.  
  
“I shall lay the facts before you and allow you to make your own deductions.” He shifted himself so he was sitting on top of the bedclothes, facing me. “The Blooms do not have any children.”  
  
I nodded. “They did not have any children when I was acquainted with them. I presume from your statement they still do not.”  
  
“Correct. In the flood of information my questions drew from the neighbours, there was not a single reference to a child, or children, so I finally inquired directly, and my observation was confirmed.”  
  
I shrugged. Many married couples did not have children—Mary and I being one.  
  
“There is more. Apparently, not only do they not have children of their own, but both Mr. and Mrs. Bloom become extremely flustered when anyone inquires about this particular fact.”  
  
“Flustered? As in embarrassed?” I asked, seeking clarification.  
  
“Precisely. Apparently, rather than express sorrow or hopefulness or even resignation about the topic, which would be the most common reactions, both Mr. and Mrs. Bloom become extremely uncomfortable. Mr. Bloom apparently blushes quite deeply, and it even occasionally has the effect of silencing Mrs. Bloom.” My eyebrows shot up in astonishment. “She does not seem able to make a coherent reply to this specific inquiry, when, as we have learned ourselves, she is _more_ than capable of expressing her views on any other subject.”  
  
“Sherlock, although expressing discomfiture upon the subject of having—or not having—children is not common, for some, it can be an awkward subject. You yourself are extremely uncomfortable discussing anything about how babies come into the world.”  
  
“I am aware of my reaction to certain subjects,” he replied a bit crossly. “That is the point I am attempting to get across. As I do, they display discomfort regarding this particular subject, but not on any other.”  
  
“I apologise. Please continue. Were there other irregularities?”  
  
He sulked for a second or two more before continuing. “Mrs. Bloom is in the habit of going to the countryside to visit a relative fairly regularly. Her visits generally last a week, and sometimes she is away a fortnight, leaving Mr. Bloom to a bachelor existence and entirely alone for the duration.”  
  
“Do they not have a servant to tend to the household?”  
  
“Apparently, working for Mrs. Bloom is not a pleasant experience. They are frequently lacking a maid-of-all-work or a cook or... well, anyone willing to work in the house for them.”  
  
“That is not surprising,” I commented drily.  
  
“Precisely. So, when Mrs. Bloom is away... John, what do _we_ do when Mrs. Hudson abandons us to visit her sister?”  
  
“What do we do?” I considered this. “We... carry the coal and heat the bath water ourselves. We attempt to manage the laundry being brought in and out. Take in the deliveries and the post. Attend to the cleanliness of our rooms—empty our pots ourselves.”  
  
“What do we _not_ do?”  
  
“Not do?” I pictured our dear landlady bustling about, going up and down the stairs. Ah. “We do not cook.”  
  
“Correct. What do we do instead?”  
  
“We dine out.” We preferred that to purchasing foodstuffs from the street vendors.  
  
“Exactly. Now, what changes would you expect a household to demonstrate if it has been reduced from two people to one? Recall that I was getting my information primarily from the shopkeepers.”  
  
I considered both the short time I lived there with Mary and my observations of Mrs. Hudson, and then it came to me. “Why, deliveries of groceries,” I exclaimed. “The butcher’s boy, the greengrocer, the dairymaid. If a household is reduced by half, the amount of food required should be equally reduced—it would be even more greatly diminished if the remaining inhabitants do not cook.”  
  
He raised his eyebrows and inclined his head slightly towards me. My mind raced on. “So...” I began slowly, “the paradox observed in the Bloom household is that, when Mrs. Bloom is away, the deliveries remain unchanged?”  
  
“And what do you deduce from that?”  
  
Enough food for two people. I turned it over and over in my mind. Food enough for two people. No servants. “There is someone else eating in the house with Mr. Bloom when his wife is absent.”  
  
“Excellent!” he exclaimed.  
  
“Good lord. Does that mean Mr. Bloom is entertaining a visitor exclusively when his wife is away?”  
  
“It does.”  
  
“Is it the same person each time?”  
  
“The behaviour is consistent from time to time, so I believe yes, it is.”  
  
“Who is it?” I finally demanded. “A lady friend? A paramour?”  
  
“A paramour, yes, but not a lady,” he explained quietly.  
  
“Do you mean not a lady based on class, or manners?” I wondered.  
  
“Neither. I mean not a _woman_.” He raised his eyebrows and looked expectantly at me. And then I discerned his meaning.  
  
“God, Sherlock, are you telling me that Mr. Bloom is a _deviant_?”  
  
“Highest marks, John.” He smiled at me proudly.  
  
“But... how did you discover this? Did anyone tell you his visitor is a man? Has someone _witnessed_ this? How can you conclude that it is a man from so little information?” I was spluttering, the questions crowding upon one another.  
  
“Calm yourself, John,” my dear friend suggested, laying a hand on my arm. “What I learned was this: although several shopkeepers verify that there must be a second person in the house when Mr. Bloom is supposed to be on his own, no one has ever seen who it is. He keeps to himself at those times—indeed, he even declines invitations, preferring to remain at home and rarely opening his door to visitors.”  
  
“I agree with your deduction that he is entertaining a mysterious visitor, but that does not mean that his paramour is a man. He would have to be equally discreet for a lady friend.”  
  
“Yes, that occurred to me—in fact, no one else seemed to even imply that it is not a woman who visits.”  
  
“So how did you make the leap to presume that Mr. Bloom is an invert?”  
  
“I was not certain until our encounter this afternoon.”  
  
I voiced my scepticism with some vehemence. “What led you down that particular path? The way he held his cup? His tie? Was he wearing theatrical make-up?”  
  
“The way he looked at our waiter,” he replied calmly, overlooking these rather ridiculous jibes.  
  
“What?” I laughed out loud at this.  
  
“I am in dead earnest, John,” he declared a bit sulkily.  
  
I decided to humour him. “How did he look at the waiter, then?”  
  
“John, you yourself explained to me that there are certain signs that one exhibits, quite unconsciously, when one is... aroused.” His voice dropped with that last word. He can be funny about such subjects, even now, when we are so free with one another.  
  
This word, however, despite his low tones, rather startled me. “Aroused?” I repeated. “Explain yourself.”  
  
“When the waiter came ‘round with the tea, you were discussing... well, persuading Mrs. Bloom not to make a fuss about the temperature of the water, and so both of you were distracted. I was looking directly at Mr. Bloom, and he at the waiter, and his reaction, though slight, was noticeable.”  
  
“What was his reaction?”  
  
“He shifted in his chair—just the slightest bit—and tilted his head towards him.” He nodded, as if this statement proved all.  
  
“Sherlock, my love, you are the most observant man in England—”  
  
“Except for my brother,” he interrupted.  
  
“Yes, except for your brother,” I agreed, “but I do not think that even you could detect such minute signs in someone you just met, and in a public place, where he would certainly be cautious about his behaviour.”  
  
“He must have been quite overwhelmed by his reactions to let even that little bit show.”  
  
I considered what he had told me. No children. A mysterious visitor when the wife was away. Apparent interest in our waiter. I shook my head. “No, my dear. It just does not seem enough to determine that he is not simply a husband disinterested in his wife.”  
  
“That is my point. He is a husband singularly disinterested in his wife, and that is because he prefers to be with men.”  
  
“I am sorry, but I require more proof,” I pronounced.  
  
“Just as we affirmed to Mrs. Bloom about ourselves, there is no tangible proof,” he explained in some frustration. “But I am not mistaken in his interest in... others like himself.”  
  
“You are withholding something from me,” I accused, and he bowed his head in acquiescence. “Why? What is it?”  
  
In response, he surprised me by lifting himself to his knees and falling onto my chest. I instantly held him, and felt his sinewy arms wrap around me. He buried his face in my shoulder. “I will tell you, but you must understand that it was strictly an experiment on my part.”  
  
My heart began to beat harder. What did he mean? “Please tell me.”  
  
He sighed. I patted his shoulder but did not interrupt. After a few deep breaths, he went on. “I laid my hand upon his knee.”  
  
“His knee?” I managed, despite feeling as if I could not breathe.  
  
“His... thigh. It was for but a moment.”  
  
“And what was his reaction?” I inquired.  
  
“He flushed. Up his neck and to his ears. He looked down at my hand where it rested on his leg and then at me. Most significantly, he did not object.”  
  
I absorbed this information quietly, while rather absent-mindedly rubbing his back. Finally, I was able to speak. “You are certain?” He nodded against my shoulder. “Then you are probably correct, my love,” I admitted slowly.  
  
“I have observed these behaviours in men and women many times,” he explained. “I did not understand the significance at first, but after you and I... after you explained certain facts of life to me, I realised what those reactions in those settings actually signified. When I saw Mr. Bloom’s reaction to my touch and considered it along with the other factors I have already mentioned, I was certain.”  
  
“I see.” I was still not entirely convinced, but it seemed the most likely explanation for Mr. Bloom’s unexpected interjections during his wife’s condemnations. And if it were not true, he would have either professed ignorance or objected vigorously against Sherlock’s declaration that they had an ‘arrangement’. He had done neither.  
  
“Does Mrs. Bloom know?” I asked.  
  
“I do not believe so. She would not have gone this far in accusing us if she thought that it might somehow reveal such a terrible secret.”  
  
“So, the reason they do not have children is... no marital relations. How does he convince Mrs. Bloom to refrain?  
  
“Do you recall his ejaculation pertaining to your own childless state?”  
  
“He mentioned my war wounds, and conjectured that it was they that inhibited my ability to...” I stopped myself. “Is that what he has told Mrs. Bloom? That he was crippled in some way?”  
  
“The chemist’s boy noted that he frequently purchases a particular liniment, ostensibly to treat injuries he sustained in a carriage accident many years ago, but added, _sotto voce_ , that he knows the liniment is nothing more than macassar oil with some scent infused, so he must not be treating an actual injury but just maintaining the appearance of one. I think that she believes his story about an old injury making it impossible to... fulfil his husbandly duties, and that in her mind, their ‘arrangement’ refers to both of them keeping this information private. So even if it was not the same information they wished to hide, they both had a secret that I threatened to reveal.”  
  
I held him tight and kissed his temple. “You are brilliant,” I praised. “Thank God you _did_ make that threat, for it certainly was the key to dismissing any possibility that they would pursue the issue further. But this also means that we must be even more vigilant in hiding our own depravity. If you were able to discover all from a few conversations with shopkeepers and one brief look, someone with lesser powers could, with time and enough information, infer the same of us.”  
  
“Yes, John,” he agreed sweetly, “but for the moment, the door to the corridor is locked, the curtains are drawn, it is quite late at night, and if you would turn down the gas again, I should like to add to my collection of observations regarding arousal.”  
  
I was only too happy to comply.  
  
  
  
*  
  
“Do you think that the law will ever change?” he asked quietly. His question surprised me, as I thought that he had drifted off to sleep.  
  
“Honestly, my love, no, I do not,” I admitted. “English laws regarding unnatural acts between men such as ourselves are as likely to change as... as it is to discover a hidden world of great dinosaurs still alive.”  
  
“Dino... what?”  
  
I laughed at this. Of course, he did not know what a dinosaur was. Like the earth revolving around the sun, this was simply not relevant to the great mind.  
  
“Never mind,” I told him. “Go to sleep.”  
  



End file.
